Page 143 of Cry Havoc

You can only control what you can control, and right now you need to follow this creek to the Sepon River.

Tom took off at a sprint, moving downstream through the water.

He fell, got up, and fell again, the rocks unstable under his feet.

Keep going.

He stayed in the center of the tributary, making good time without thorns and vines attacking him at every step.

Was that a klick? Two klicks?

Don’t stop to estimate distance to the river. You are going in the right direction.

The stream started getting deeper and then widened into an even deeper pool. A roar from downstream indicated that a rapid was just ahead.

Tom slowed his sprint and waded farther out, pushing off the bottomto propel himself into a sidestroke, struggling to stay afloat with the chest rig, satchel, and canteen.

When he reached the other side, he realized that it was not rapids making the noise. It was a waterfall.

The water got shallower as he approached the lip of the drop, and Tom used a rock to brace himself and evaluate the distance to the pool below.

It looked to be about 40 feet, which was doable, unless there were rocks just beneath the surface. He had jumped from plenty of cliffs in Colorado and Idaho in his youth, but one always checked the depth and ensured there were no hidden rocks before hurling oneself off a ledge. He would not have that luxury this time.

You could climb down.

Too sheer and slick.

You could go into the jungle and portage around.

If the dogs were working the banks this far downstream, they will pick up my scent and confirm I am moving toward the Sepon River.

You have to jump.

Tom pulled the canteen off, unscrewed the cap, and let the water take it over the drop. Next, he removed the satchel, stuffing an extra magazine along with what gear he could into his pockets. He then threw the bag filled with magazines over the falls, watching it impact the pool below. It didn’t look like it hit anything beneath the surface. He then removed his chest rig and threw it over as well, aiming just to the right of where the satchel had landed in an attempt to discern if there was a rock in that particular location. It did not appear so.

Tom then moved the AK to his left side to keep it away from his broken ribs.

Hold on to this fucking rifle, he told himself.

Here we go. Three. Two. One.

Tom lifted his feet and let the current pull him from behind the rock to the crest of the falls. He planted his feet and propelled himself into the abyss.

CHAPTER 51

TOM HIT HARD, THEcold water instantly engulfing him.

The AK was ripped from his grasp on impact, causing the wood stock to smash into the side of his head. As it was slung, he managed to claw it back as he kicked for the surface, thankful he had not passed out from the pain that jolted from his ribs and threatened to incapacitate him.

Just think about Quinn.

He kicked himself to the far side of the pool and crawled to shallow water near the bank to take stock of his gear and injuries.

He inspected the AK and ensured the magazine was still there and locked in place. He then checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber.

Tom felt the side of his head where the stock had made contact. There was no blood, but he could already feel a welt rising.

Pushing himself to his knees, he surveyed the contents of his pockets. The extra AK mag was gone, as were his signal flare and NVA blade. He had managed to retain his mirror, Swiss Army Knife, and map, which he used to gauge his location. He twisted his wrist to look at the Waltham compass on his watch strap. The tributary was still taking him southeast.